I Felt Safe, I Felt At Home.

Alice Adkins has just turned 18. She still lives with her mother, and her dog Maisie. The world has just moved on from a apocalyptic disaster which had massive effect on both the world and it's inhabitants. People died, people lost loved ones. Alice was 10 at the time - and she saw her father die. Right in front of her - she was oblivious of one thing until now. She has searched for so long but the realisation has just become clear - the person who killed her dad, was trying to kill her instead...

Alice is out to get revenge, in a story of twists, emotion and bitterness, will she survive to tell the tale?

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5. 5.

 

At this point I sprinted upstairs.

“Wait, where are you going?! What do you mean they want to kill you!” My mum shouted at me. I ignored her, and grabbed the ladder for the attic.

“Forget that for now, I need the photos box!” I shouted, folding out the ladder at the same time. I climbed it, unhitched the attic cover, and climbed in. I switched the light on and millions of particles of dust became visible. The dust made me cough and started to irritate my asthma. I fought through it and started to filter through boxes.

“Christmas Decorations” One said. I shoved it out the way, along with a box that said “Old Toys” with the word “Alice” in brackets. Finally, I found a dusty cardboard box with “PHOTOS” written in bold, black type across it. It was heavy, so I pushed it towards the opening to the attic, making sure it wasn’t going to fall. I carefully placed all the other boxes back, and made my way down to the ladder.

I stood on top, and slowly passed the box of photos down to my mother who stood firmly on the landing, arms outstretched. She winced as she held it and placed it away from the stairs in my bedroom. I pulled the hatch over the attic opening, and made my way down the ladder, and folded it away.

I breathed out and placed my hands on my hips.

“Cup of tea love?” My mum smiled. I smiled and nodded in reply, she touched me gently on the shoulder, and made her way downstairs. I trundled into my room, sat on my bed and wiped my eyes with a tissue. Mascara had run and created dark, black lines on my face, like the ones you drew on yourself when you were a kid with a felt tip pen to camouflage. I started to filter through the box.

 

My mother burst into the room with a boiling hot cup of tea in her hand.

 

“Here you go love.” She placed it next to me on the windowsill.

“2 sugars?” I questioned. She nodded. I smiled, and mouthed “Thank You”. She smiled and left the room; I took a sip and regretted it afterwards.

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